Inspired by musicalfantasy27’s fanart [x] and the Disney short film Paperman.
Anyone who may have been on the London Underground during an unseasonably warm afternoon in September might have witnessed something rather odd.
Every once in a while, a paper plane would flit past their heads, floating with the soft breeze.
And then another.
Now, any adult witnessing this may have thought it to be a silly prank played by some naughty children.
A child however, has a greater imagination than a adult—especially if said adult is a regular commuter in a grey business suit.
One child was on the Underground that day; a child who went by the name of Adam. And Adam was not a happy child—certainly not that day. It can’t be helped really, when you have a bad day (and his day had been particularly awful indeed). The only good part of it had been when a balloon vendor decided to give him his big red balloon, free of charge simply to “make him smile”. It hadn’t worked. But he’d kept the balloon anyway.
When he stepped onto the Hammersmith & City train to get to his home, he didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary. Instead, he sat down and watched as the train pulled away, leaving him and a grey-faced old lady as the only people in the carriage. Having nothing to do, Adam began to quietly whistle.
That whistle however, died when they got to the station for Baker Street and the doors opened. In fell a man.
First Sherlolly fanart :D
In my mind, he’s trying to flirt with her in his own Sherlock way, which probably means he’s complimenting her with what he thinks is complimentary…but is actually just insulting her. I would write a ficlet…but I can’t, anyone? (Excuse my lack of anatomy/shading skills)
((Oh my gosh, I apologize for the week long wait. Scholarly writing assignments popped up and BOOM there went all my free time. Anyway, here it is. I kinda lost the prompt in the piles of stuff on my dash and I don’t know if this is exactly what Nonny was asking for. Oh well. Enjoy my last minute prompt fill!)
Molly was more than surprised when Sherlock had abruptly shown up at her door. He had mumbled something about John being a git, though Molly was not quite clear as to what was happening or why Sherlock required her presence specifically. But, here she was, dressed up and sitting next to Sherlock Holmes in a private box at the opera.
Every once in a while, Molly would sneak a glance over at the consulting detective who simply stared straight ahead, not even bothering to pay attention to the action on stage. Molly tried to focus on the opera, but she kept finding herself distracted by Sherlock’s fingers which flawlessly mimicked the violins in the orchestra. Had he played this music before?
“He’s going to leave her, you know.”
Molly jumped slightly at hearing his voice directly in her ear.
“But, they’ve just gotten married.” Molly furrowed her brow. “Sherlock, they just sang for an entire half hour about getting married.”
“No, the actor,” Sherlock muttered. “He’s leaving his wife for the chorus girl up front.”
They settled into silence once more.
As the opera progressed, Molly kept wondering why Sherlock chose this opera — it was comical. She definitely would not have pegged him as a comic opera type of person. The over-acting and the ridiculous plot should have been enough to make him tear out of the opera house, or at least retreat into his mind palace.
“I love you.”
“What!?” Molly squeaked, earning a few glares from below.
“That is what she just sang,” Sherlock said, unperturbed.
“I-I can read the supertitles, Sherlock,” Molly stuttered out, still flustered.
“Very well.” Sherlock shrugged, slightly irritated at being brushed off.
A good two hours later when the orchestra struck its final note, the two found themselves outside in the chilly London weather waiting for their transportation.
“I still don’t quite understand why I was needed here tonight,” Molly said rocking back and forth on her heels, her arms wrapped tightly around herself trying to preserve what little body heat she had.
“Did you not enjoy it?” Sherlock glanced over at the petite, brunette woman beside him with a slight frown.
“Oh no, I enjoyed very much!” Molly assured him. “But, that wasn’t what I was asking. Why did you need me here tonight? Why not John?”
“I believe that it is customary to take someone you enjoy spending time with out to public events together. John is enjoyable company, however—”
“Wait, wait, wait. Stop.” Molly interrupted. “Sherlock, was this a date?”
Molly covered her mouth in a useless attempt to stifle her laughter. She knew Sherlock had poor tact when it came to social cues, but this was a bit different. Only Sherlock Holmes could manage to take a girl out on a date without her noticing.
The detective had knocked on her flat’s door at six o’clock and demanded that she change into something presentable, “preferably something not covered in offensive colors or cat fur” were his exact words. When she had reemerged dressed in what she thought was presentable, Sherlock promptly let himself into her flat and proceeded to pick out her outfit for her and, much to Molly’s disdain, Sherlock knew how to dress her better than she did herself.
Wasting no time, he had hustled her out of her flat and into the town car that was parked outside her flat. Molly half expected to find Mycroft Holmes sitting inside ready to debrief them about some case. Fortunately, that was not the case. However, by that time she still had had no idea where Sherlock was taking her until the car pulled in front of the London Royal Opera House.
“Well, I had been waiting the entire opera for you to leap out of your seat and accuse the tenor of murder,” Molly admitted. “I assumed that we were on a case.”
“It was quite plain that it was not a case.” Sherlock said defensively. “For one, I am not dressed for a case. If you would notice, there are no scuff marks on these shoes. These shoes are strictly for…social outings. Furthermore, everything I am wearing is freshly pressed with no blood stains or signs wear.”
Molly swept her eyes up and down his wardrobe. All of Sherlock’s suits looked the same to her.
“I picked you up at your door exactly five minutes early which gave us precisely enough time to drive to the opera house — stop lights and traffic all accounted for, of course. I commented on your appearance when I arrived at your doorstep—”
“—More like insulted—”
“—I opened the door of the cab for you and made pleasant conversation—”
“—about the decayed state of a possum you found—”
“—I paid for the both the tickets and made sure that you were clear that you would be paying for nothing. I got us prime seating in the opera house and constantly inquired about your well-being and state of contentment. I have also not laid a finger on my mobile this entire time. Really, Molly, can you be so oblivious?”
Molly giggled which only served to irritate Sherlock further.
“Sherlock,” Molly implored, as her laughter subsided. “I really enjoyed tonight.”
“Don’t patronize me, Molly,” Sherlock said stiffly.
“Sherlock?” Molly asked.
He peered down at Molly who had looped her arm through his and was now looking up at him with the same kind and patient expression he had grown so accustomed to during his lengthy stay in her flat.
Molly rose on her tip toes and pressed her lips against his cheek.
“Thank you,” Molly whispered, her hot breath tickling his ear.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, still feeling the warmth from her lips radiating throughout his face.
Molly contentedly nuzzled her head into his shoulder. She shuddered as a breeze came rolling through. She instinctively pressed herself closer to Sherlock. As if realizing something, Sherlock shrugged her off quickly. Before she could complain, Molly found the famed bel staff coat on her shoulders.
“It is customary for the male to offer his jacket to his date. It shows affection and wards off other prospective males,” Sherlock stated in a matter-of-fact tone.
“…Sherlock, have you been using Cosmopolitan as resource material?”
“I think that’s our car!” Sherlock announced, seemingly not hearing Molly’s comment, but the pinkish tinge of his ears told otherwise.
((First, I am so sorry for the delay icequeenforlife. I had to figure out how to write this. This became a long thing of Smaug!lock mixed with Beauty and the Beast. I owe you another part to this cause its not wholly Sherlolly centric, but just the bare beginnings. Who knows, this may turn into a multi-chapter. This is probably not what you had in mind, but I tried :D There’s a lot of sweat and tears in this. Please let me know what you think!!))
Sherlock had known solitude for most of his life. Of course, being born with certain defects assured that solitude would be all he would ever know. Locked away since the age of four, Sherlock grew up in solitude. At first, he was taken care of by his family’s nanny, Mrs. Hudson, and a multitude of other servants. Once he turned eighteen, all the servants eagerly departed the mansion thankful to escape the “freak” as they called him. Yes, his yellowish eyes and the red, scaly texture of his skin were far from normal. Though, it wasn’t purely his physical attributes that tended to cause people to steer clear of him. His arrogant attitude and sharp tongue made him a rather unpleasant person to be with. It was because of this that he had very few visitors up at his grand mansion save for the occasional, unwelcome visit from his brother Mycroft and the welcome, yet slightly irritating, visits from Mrs. Hudson.
The tedious days of his youth were, at first, filled by reading. Book after book, volume after volume, Sherlock tore through what seemed like every piece of writing he could get his hands on, filling his head with as much knowledge as possible. When the words ran out, he took to scratching out melodies on his Stradivarius (at the expense of his brother, of course). When the violin ceased to quell his boredom, he began to hoard gems and treasures. Soon, the mansion was filled with every jewel from Africa to India. However, it was the gift of a telescope that provided Sherlock with a whole new type of entertainment.
There was a window on the third floor of the mansion where one could view the entirety of the small town below. With the telescope carefully propped on the windowsill, Sherlock spent most of his youth staring through it and studying the inhabitants, knowing them like they would never know him. He knew every single person in the town. He knew their habits, their relationships, who was getting off with whom, as well as things that they did not even know themselves. However, even the townspeople became boring and predictable. Years flew by. Nothing in that little town ever changed; that was, until the arrival of a young woman and her father.
The Hoopers. That was the surname of the new inhabitants. They were nothing special, but they were new and therefore very interesting to Sherlock. The daughter was a shy and introverted thing. She was kind to everyone, even to a fault. She always met people with a welcoming smile, but as soon as they were out of her sight, her mask dropped and her shoulders slumped. No matter how much she tried, she did not fit in there. Sherlock often observed her reading books alone while the others gathered for their daily gossip. Unfortunately, he could not discern what book she was reading, only that it was a new book every time. Eventually, she ran out of books and resorted rereading books two or three times. She was a fast reader with an insatiable thirst for knowledge. It was a pity that the town’s library was so inadequate. Sherlock did note that there was one particular book that she seemed partial to. It drove him mad trying to figure out what it was she found so intriguing.
The father, he was going to die. Mr. Hooper was ill. The father knew, but the daughter did not. Sherlock observed that Mr. Hooper was unable to walk short distances without becoming short of breath. As time wore on, he noticed the stiffness in Mr. Hooper’s movements and gestures. The father made certain that the daughter did not know. Sherlock observed how the limp and pained movements were hidden away whenever the daughter was in sight. To Sherlock, it seemed much crueler to keep Ms. Hooper in the dark rather than to tell her plain. After all, she would have to plan accordingly. The Hoopers were in no way rich. Once Mr. Hooper was gone, Ms. Hooper would have to inevitably fend for herself. It was rather unfortunate.
Now, Sherlock knew his dwelling inside and out. Living in the mansion for a good thirty years gave him more than enough time to explore every nook and cranny. He knew which stair made what sound when a certain amount of pressure was added to it. He knew each creak of the doors. He knew where all of his books were. He especially knew where every jewel he ever owned was located. So, it was evident that if something was misplaced, Sherlock would notice.
A creak woke him in the middle of the night.
Front door, he mentally noted to himself. The creak was long and slow which only meant one thing: a thief. Sherlock inwardly grinned, he hadn’t had the pleasantries of
a thief in a while. Every once in a while, a brave (or incredibly ignorant) soul would venture up to the mansion in hopes of procuring the rumored treasure within.
Sherlock quietly followed the sound of coins being stuffed hurriedly into a sack. He glanced at the mud tracked in from the intruder. Sherlock inwardly scoffed, if someone was going to steal from him, they could at least try.
“Trespassing is illegal.”
The thief jumped and dropped the back of treasure before trying desperately to grab what he had and make a dash for it. Unfortunately for him, Sherlock’s tall frame blocked the exit. The thief fell backwards on his rump right in front of Sherlock.
The thief took in Sherlock’s odd, yet terrifying appearance. Yellowish eyes bore into the thief’s dark brown ones. The red scaly skin glinted in the light given off by the treasures. Perhaps what was most unsettling was the tight lipped smile the creature was giving him which concealed a good set of sharpened teeth.
In one stride, Sherlock towered over the cowering man. With a swift motion, Sherlock hoisted the thief up by the scruff of his collar. It had been quite a long time since he had had the joy of playing with a victim.
“Please, let me go me!” the thief begged, the fear evident in his voice.
“Dull.” His victims could at least try to be creative before they were burned to a crisp.
“Please, I’ll give you anything!”
“What could you give? You obviously have nothing of importance if you are here attempting to steal from me,” Sherlock sneered, enjoying the race of the man’s pulse and the fear emanating off of him.
“I have a daughter!” the thief cried. “I can’t leave her. What will she do?”
Sherlock’s grip immediately slackened at hearing this news. He scrutinized the thief that he held in his grip.
“Hooper.” Sherlock breathed before letting Mr. Hooper fall to the ground.
“Yes…yes! That’s me, but….h-how did—” Mr. Hooper stuttered out with much difficulty.
From closer inspection, Sherlock deduced that the father was closer to death than he had originally suspected. Difficulty speaking, face weakness, inability to control movements, the man was already standing in his grave. What would Ms. Hooper do?
“W-what about m-my…daughter?” Mr. Hooper asked uneasily.
“I want her.”
“N-no, that’s absurd!” Mr. Hooper protested in a brief moment of bravery, but the steely glare from the yellow eyes quickly silenced him. “W-what do you want with her? W-what do you want with Molly?”
“You are going to die. A stroke, no doubt. You know this. You wish to keep your daughter in the dark, why though? Why not just tell her and let it be over with. You are worried for your daughter’s future and rightfully so. You recently moved to this small town to escape tragedy. Death of a family member, most likely mother. There is no more close family relatives to you and you are worried about the emotional impact on your daughter as well as her financial stability. You are poor and there aren’t any suitors knocking on your daughter’s door. You want your daughter to be well taken care of. I am more than capable. Probably more capable than you, even. It’s a simple choice, really.”
Mr. Hooper went silent. Sherlock had no time or patience for silence. Without a word, Sherlock grabbed Mr. Hooper by his jacket and dragged him to the front door. Roughly, Mr. Hooper was thrown out of the grand, old oak doors.
“Bring her to me,” Sherlock demanded before shutting the doors on the man.
When Sherlock returned to his bed, there was only one name on his mind:
A/N : This has been sitting around on my computer for a while. I haven’t posted anything in a while, so I thought why not.
“…and whatever you do, no deductions. Okay?”
Oliver Holmes stood exasperated in front of his father who had not given him one nod of recognition. Oliver felt his stomach turn over. He knew it was a bad idea to invite Amy and her family over for dinner. He had been so careful not to mention her around his parents. Unfortunately, around the fourth month of dating, he accidentally left his cell phone unattended in the living room. Oliver should’ve know that with Sherlock Holmes as his father, secrets don’t stay hidden. However, he commended himself for keeping a secret for so long, but silently kicked himself for being so sloppy.
“It may come as a surprise to you, Oliver, but I do know how to conduct myself in public,” Sherlock said, absentmindedly plucking away at his Stradivarius.
Just like all the other times? Oliver added silently in his head.
The poor boy couldn’t hold down a girlfriend for more than a month and no thanks to his father. Martha burst into tears within a few seconds of being introduced to and deduced by Sherlock. Penny broke up with Oliver after Sherlock had broken up her parents’ marriage at Parent Night at school. Sally had been the longest girlfriend yet, that was, until Sherlock exposed her extracurricular activities with the football team.
“Oliver, relax,” his mum’s voice called from the kitchen area. “I’m sure your father will be on his best behavior.”
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked upwards at this and Oliver inwardly groaned. What his father considered his best behavior included not leaving the eyeballs out on the kitchen counter. Sometimes Oliver wondered how his mum ever put up with him.
“Please, just this once?” Oliver pleaded, but was only met with a raised eyebrow from his dad. Oliver huffed in annoyance before turning and heading up the stairs.
“Amy must mean a lot to Oliver if he has tried this hard to keep you in the dark.” Molly Holmes now stood, leaning against the frame that separated the living room and the kitchen with her arms crossed.
“I don’t want our son associating himself with the wrong person,” Sherlock said, deflecting Molly’s indirect plea to cooperate. “Knowing Oliver, he will end up married to a mass murderer and not notice at all. The boy is incredibly bright, but can be incredibly thick at times. Molly, I’m referring to our son who almost ate Cyanide powder thinking it was sugar!”
“He was nine and you left it on the counter.” Molly reminded her husband patiently.
“I will not have my son married to a serial killer.” Sherlock protested.
“For God’s sake, Sherlock, it’s only a dinner, not an engagement party!”
In Molly’s eyes, there were only two possible ways for the evening to go over well: either Amy would turn out to be the perfect human being or Sherlock would silence his pride and keep the deductions to himself. Needless to say, both were very unlikely.
((Here is the Skiing prompt from a fabulous anon. I hope you enjoy it! I will post the other prompts hopefully by tomorrow))
“I don’t like this.”
“We aren’t even at the top of the hill, Sherlock,” Molly frowned at the grousing detective who had his arms crossed firmly and was wearing a rather childlike pout. “If you sink down any lower in the lift, you’ll fall out.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Molly. There is clearly a safety bar keeping me from doing so.” Sherlock scowled.
“I have absolutely no idea why you agreed to come to this family gathering,” Molly shook her head. “You don’t like social outings, you detest my extended family, and apparently, you don’t like skiing.”
“I prefer having full mobility of my feet,” Sherlock grumbled, referring to the skis strapped to his feet. “These…things prevent me from running.”
“That’s because they’re meant for skiing.”
“I know they’re meant for skiing!” Sherlock snapped.
Molly smiled patiently. It was rather hard to take her husband seriously when he was bundled up in several layers and a snow suit.
“Skis up,” Molly reminded Sherlock before lifting the safety bar and sliding from the seat and on to the hill. She let herself glide a bit farther, stopping herself at the edge of the hill in order to admire the view.
Molly always found the mountains at the ski resort quite beautiful. She had come to this ski resort ever since she was a little girl. It was her late father who had taught her the art of skiing as well as the art of falling. The first year after his death, she had visited the mountains, finding solace in the peaceful and beautif—
“OW! Sherlock, what the hell!?”
Sherlock had managed to run straight into Molly, nearly knocking her off balance and down the hill.
“I was simply allowing gravity to its course of action.” Sherlock shrugged noncommittally as he tried to steady himself.
“Of course you were,” Molly said, amused. She looped her arm through his, giving him a chance to regain his balance knowing that he would never accept direct help. Once steadied, she glided over to where the other skiers were eagerly pushing themselves down the steep hill.
“You know what to do, right Sherlock?” Molly asked as she slid her goggles over her eyes.
“Of course I do!” Sherlock said defensively. He glanced down the hill briefly. He scoffed, “It’s just physics, Molly.”
“Right…just physics,” Molly repeated. “Whatever you say, Sherlock.”
The two of them stood at the top of the hill silently, both looking down the slope as others skied joyfully past them. Molly’s fingers twitched eagerly on her ski poles, but she didn’t want to leave Sherlock by himself as she was not quite certain whether or not the man knew what he was doing.
“You’re itching to go, Molly. Why don’t you go first? I’ll follow.” Sherlock offered one of his rare, charming smiles. Molly raised an eyebrow. She never saw that smile unless Sherlock wanted access to the morgue. Yep. Definitely didn’t know what he was doing.
“Molly, you haven’t visited this slope in five years perhaps? You’re obviously a seasoned skier, probably came up here every year with…your father, was it? This is one of the places you feel most connected to him and there’s no doubt th-”
“Alright, Sherlock, I’ll go!” Molly cut his deduction short, not in the mood. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she added as an after thought,
“Of course I know what I’m doing. Why wouldn’t I? Preposterous…” She heard her husband mutter under his breath, though the way his eyes kept glaring at the slope told a different story.
She guided herself to the edge of the slope and readjusted her grip on the poles. Molly prayed that she still knew what she was doing after five hears of not skiing. She bent her knees slightly before pushing off down the hill.
Molly quickly forgot about her worries. The wind whistled loudly as she sped quickly and adeptly down the slope. Her hair flew out behind her as the cold nipped at her cheeks and nose, but she did not mind one bit. Oh, how she had missed the thrill of charging downhill as full speed. She pushed herself faster, even leaning from one side to another in order to pass other skiers. She pointed the tips of her skis together as she neared the bottom of the slope, before coming to a perfect stop.
Nope, she had not lost one bit of her skiing knowledge. She made a mental note to visit the expert hill with her brothers later knowing Sherlock would be fully against it. Speaking of which, where was Sherlock?
“Sherlock?” she called out uselessly.
Molly pushed her goggles on to her head and scanned the slope for any sign of the detective. She squinted as she tried to see who was at the top of the hill. Unfortunately, there was no Sherlock to be found.
“He probably just took the chair lift down,” Molly muttered to herself. She was only starting to push herself towards the chair lift when she noticed a black mass hurtling down the slope and—
Molly quickly undid her skis and ran to the large snow bank into which her husband had so elegantly plowed into. She had to stifle her laughter when she saw the Sherlock-shaped indent in the snow bank.
“Sherlock? Are you….are you okay?” Molly managed to ask between giggles.
“Mm gmmd ouu imphh hishh unny” came Sherlock’s reply from within the snow bank.
She quickly reached into the snow bank to pull Sherlock out. The detective stumbled clumsily out of the snowdrift, managing to trip on the skis and fall face forward into the snow once more.
Molly involuntarily let out an amused snort.
“Sherlock…” Molly knelt down in the snow and calmly undid the man’s skis bereaving him the chance of harming himself any more.
“I’m glad you find funny,” Sherlock said sardonically, once restored to his former dignity. He shivered slightly as the snow had succeeded in burrowing itself into his snow suit.
“I do,” Molly grinned reaching up to pick out the chunks of snow that had decided to form in his hair. “Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t know how to ski?”
“Well, Molly, I-” Sherlock started to defend himself.
“Never mind that. Doesn’t matter.” Molly waved it off, sparing him any more humiliation. “I know a lovely little coffee shop down in the small town. I’m sure someone interesting is bound to show up. In a small town like this, it’s certain that someone has some dark secret.”
Sherlock gave her a withering look to which Molly merely gave him a small smile before pecking him lightly on the cheek. His cold, hard glare softened under her warm and loving gaze. He narrowed his eyes slightly. It was dangerous how much power she held over him.
“The ski lift operator has two children in America that her husband doesn’t know about. The rental man is also carrying on an affair with the daughter of the owner of this resort who, coincidentally, spends a lot of time gambling his money away despite the fact that he has to pay to put his daughter through Uni. Did you know that, Molly? No, of course you didn’t.”
Molly contentedly slipped her hand into his and agreed, “Of course not.”
((Note: My first attempt at angsty/sad stuff. It took a while to figure out how to write. I’m still getting the hang of Sherlock fanfic.mHope the Nonny who requested it is satisfied :D))
Something was off.
The two chairs still sat at exactly four and a half feet from each other. The couch still covered the scorch marks from the failed experiment from a few months past. The skull had remained in its position on the mantle, though it was a few degrees off - the cat’s fault obviously. The books were still piled high next to the empty space where his laptop usually resided when he was home.
Yes. Nothing had changed. Yet, something was different.
It wasn’t until he opened the closet that he noticed something entirely different. Peaking out from underneath the various coats was the corner of a box. It hadn’t been there when he had left. Judging by the thin layer of dust that coated it, the box had recently been put there around three days ago. From the way that the corner of the box was bent, it had been pushed into the coat aggressively. The fact that it was covered by the coats indicated that it was deliberately meant to be hidden — though it was a rather poor hiding job.
There was no sign of his wife anywhere. However, the dust patterns on the floor told a different story. One, short strip of floor was completely clean. It must have been where she had been pacing, and quite recently. It was painfully obvious that she was planning to surprise him, not to mention, there was definitely more than that one box in the flat. There were actually multiple boxes hidden somewhere around the flat that had been dragged in.
The kitchen was empty, except for three days’ worth of dirty dishes that were stacked in the sink. Molly usually cleaned up right after she ate.
The bedroom was empty as well. The bed was not made. Molly usually made the bed right after getting up.
It was well after her shift at Bart’s. Her shoes had been sitting by the front door and her coat had been hung in the closet. She was definitely home.
If his wife was going to surprise him, he would rather it be sooner than later. It had become a common thing for her to surprise him whenever he returned from a long case. Although, it usually only went as far as a hot meal or tea.
“Molly, as much as I appreciate the sentiment, I would really rather just see you. I am quite tired.”
A sniffle stopped him in his tracks. He backtracked towards the bathroom and gently nudged the door open.
His wife was curled into herself on the floor of the bathroom with arms wrapped around her midsection. Her hair was down and was rather tangled. He noted that she was wearing one of his pajama pants as well as his dressing gown. She always did that when she missed him or whenever she worried about him. Though, this time around, he had been very good about updating her on the status of his well being. She, on the other hand, barely responded.
“Sherlock?” Her voice was dry, he could almost feel her throat burning. She flicked her eyes up toward him. He took note of the slight redness and sleep deprived look on them. “You’re home early.”
“Are you not pleased to see me?”
Molly shook her head and pushed herself up from the ground with much effort before wrapping herself in his arms.
“I must have fallen asleep,” she muttered into his chest.
“What?” She drew back sharply.
“The boxes in the closet. They are all full of objects from your childhood, most likely your infancy judging by the wear and tear of it. You’ve been hauling boxes in here for the past few weeks that I’ve been away. They were rather heavy, I presume, seeing as they have managed to faintly scratch the floor. You were planning something. I came home early, without notice and you didn’t have time to finish up which explains why the box was not well hidden. You’ve gained weight. Two to three pounds, I would say. You are experiencing morning sickness, and, by my calculations and the dry bit of vomit on the corner of your mouth, you were just overcome by nausea minutes before I arrived home. So, yes, you’re pregnant.”
She lowered her eyes with an unreadable expression on her face. Was it shame? Was it embarrassment? He couldn’t tell.
Her voice cracked. He had her in his arms before she could crumple back down to the floor. He pushed all the unanswered questions to the back of his mind. It did not matter how far along she had been or how long she had known about it. It did not matter that he had been a father for six weeks without knowing. It did not matter that she never had called him. To him, the only thing that mattered was the broken woman who clung to him desperately on the bathroom floor.
He held her for hours on end on that bathroom floor, softly stroking her hair and kissing her gently upon the forehead.